So, a friend asked how my weekend went. "Not bad," says I, "the party was good. Cute Drummer Guy had his karaoke game there, that was a kick. Hey, you wanna go to the Rockies game with me? Flirty Coworker Guy can't go, after all." "What about Young Dude?" "Nah, he can't go, either."
So, what is it with nicknames? These people have names. Why don't I use them? I found myself wondering if I use this as a means to keep separation between different facets of my life (wouldn't want the pipe band people to know anything about my other friends, for heaven's sake -- what if someone spills secrets??). Or do I use this to keep people from having to remember actual names? ("Barry? Which one's he again?").
In any case, my life is full of such labels. Back in The Day, when I was a regular at MoDean's, my friend and I knew it was a slow night if even Morrissey Guy wasn't there. Conversely, if Paper Guy AND Aerobics Girl were there, it was a banner evening. Throw in the Vampire, and we had ourselves a party. Occasionally, Energy Conservation Guy could be seen bobbing his head to the music, in the middle of the floor. You couldn't really call it dancing -- that expended way too much energy all at once.
Now that I think about it, maybe MoDean's is where it all started. Besides all the above-named regulars, that's where I met PsychoDan, who is the guy I was dating just before meeting RatBastard. PsychoDan lived with a guy named Chance (whatever happened to that cutie, I wonder?), and a friend that went by English introduced me to RatBastard. Hmmm.....
But I'm not the only one who does this. My friend and bandmate, Andrew (for whom I have conjured a nickname which will not be divulged here) refers to Dear Wife in his blogs. I happen to know that she has a name, and I've heard him use it in conversation, but for literary purposes, she seems to be relegated to this title. There's food/drink/bar reviewer in the paper that checks out prospective column subjects with a friend known to me only as The German. The gossip columnist has a some that she has apparently cursed with the moniker On The Town Junior. Poor kid. He must get beat up a lot.
The only thing that worries me, is that, somewhere out there, I must have a nickname. I shudder to think what it might be. If I could be assured that I was known to someone's group of friends as Cute Funny Freckly Girl, I'd not worry so much about it. But if there are people asking an ex about PsychoWench, I don't wanna know.
----------------------------
I was going to post a PPP (Past Poetic Pretense) inspired by Lost Soulmate Guy, but you need a break from the past self-pitying wallowing that seems to make up the majority of my Free Verse Diary, so here's one that's purely descriptive, and not pining at all. It was written on a road trip from Denver to Santa Fe in college (I wasn't driving that stretch), and on our recent band trip to Albuquerque, that same stretch still evoked these same images for me.
Untitled
Rockies disappearing
Plains
Tumbleweeds
History
Where pioneers have walked, perhaps lived.
Where mustangs and bison once ran free is now fenced in
and stabbed by telephone
poles.
The railroad that was once so important, so brand-new,
now sits unnoticed,
virtually unused.
Cars whiz by on slabs of tar, not even noticing
the young colts
chasing their whims across the plains.
Rivers that were so vital to wagon trains and cattle
now trickle unnoticed
under bridges.
I look at the mesas and can almost see the
Indian of yesterday
watching the land for
signs of a herd
of game.
I long for a chestnut mare to explore
the country with,
a companion with whom
I can step back
a hundred years.
P.N.
3-11-89